


In Memory

by evening_coffee



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-19 00:27:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29617776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evening_coffee/pseuds/evening_coffee
Summary: "He would love to lie to himself. To tell himself that he did know her, and she had just slipped away from his memory. But, no. He didn’t know that voice, and any version of him that did was so thoroughly scrubbed from his consciousness that calling her a forgotten face would be far too generous.But even so, he did not stop trying. He shut his eyes tight and imagined different features. He matched them together rapidly in his mind, shifting the appearance of this reconstructed Sasha over and over again and desperately waiting for something to look familiar."A story about mourning...
Kudos: 6





	In Memory

Jon clutches the tape recorder with enough force to turn his knuckles white. He focuses on keeping his breathing steady and quiet, lest any wince or sigh of relief give away his position.

Even though he couldn’t see her—see  _ it— _ he could feel its presence as it pursued him through the tunnels, taking the occasional moment to mock his stupidity or churn out threats of pain and death.

No, a fate  _ worse  _ than death.

Jon raises the tape recorder to his lips as he hears the thing that isn’t Sasha dart in the opposite direction. “If that thing catches me,” he whispers, “no one will miss me...If I die here, in the tunnels, well, ha, it’s...it’s possible that no one would miss me anyways. But they might search for me, or maybe attend a funeral out of obligation. That—that would be fine, though. Even if I’m not truly missed, at least they’d know I’m gone.” He takes a moment to exhale as he tries to organize his fracturing train of thought. “But if it’s that thing that kills me, I—I won’t even be missed as a formality. Some murderous monster will walk around wearing my name and my clothes. It’ll do my job, talk to my coworkers as if it’s known them for years. And they’ll talk to it. They might even show it kindness. They might laugh at its jokes or invite it to drinks after work.” Jon begins clenching his jaw, and lets a sliver of frustration turn his voice from a whisper to a low growl. “And it will smile. It will say ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ It will revel in their ignorant stupidity as it lives a hollow facsimile of a human existence. And they’ll let it. They’ll let ‘Jon Sims’ into their lives with open arms and—”

Jon freezes for a moment; not with fear, but with a sudden and deeply painful realization. He forces a mirthless chuckle out of his throat before continuing. His voice is calmer, now a murmur instead of a growl. “I don’t know why I sound so angry. How can I judge people for doing exactly what I’ve been doing for months? I only realized Sasha was de—that Sasha was...that Sasha was missing mere days ago. And it  _ feels  _ like that thing only replaced her the very moment I realized it happened. But that’s not the reality, is it?” Another mirthless laugh. “No. No I’ve been treating her...her killer...” Jon stops and moves the tape recorder away from his mouth. He pinches his nose as he swallows down a sob. “I’ve been treating that monster as though it were my friend. And the tragedy is that...that’s  _ Sasha.  _ That’s what Sasha’s always looked like to me. That face is the one I see in my memories. All of them. Memories from  _ years  _ ago before any of this happened. I—I um...” Jon can feel his breathing get heavier and subconsciously abandons any attempt to quiet it.

He tries. He  _ really  _ tries to remember her face. Her real face. The face of the woman he once knew and not the monster that had warped his memory. What  colour was her skin? Her hair? Melanie had insisted her hair was long. How long? Was it curly? Straight? Blonde? Black?

Her eyes...what  colour were her eyes? What shape? What did her glasses look like? What did her lips look like when she smiled? Did she smile often? She must have...the voice Jon had heard on the tape recordings sounded light and joyful. She sounded beautiful, and she sounded like a person that Jon just wished he could know. 

He would love to lie to himself. To tell himself that he  _ did  _ know her, and she had just slipped away from his memory. But, no. He didn’t know that voice, and any version of him that did was so thoroughly scrubbed from his consciousness that calling her a forgotten face would be far too generous.

But even so, he did not stop trying. He shut his eyes tight and imagined different features. He matched them together rapidly in his mind, shifting the appearance of this reconstructed Sasha over and over again and desperately waiting for something to look familiar.

_ Pop. _

The noise did not come from inside of the tunnels, but from deep within Jon’s memory. Before the institute, before adulthood, before any encounter with the seal of Jurgen Leitner.

He was five years old. Kindergarten. Downtime. He was watching as two nearby girls played with their dolls. The dolls were hard plastic, but with posable limbs and synthetic hair that could be tied, braided, and brushed.

One of the girls, while trying to shove her doll into a different outfit, grabbed it by the hair and pulled down hard on the body. The tiny plastic gap at the base of the doll’s head began to slowly invert under the pressure, until it finally separated itself from the neck with a gentle  _ pop. _

At the time, Jon had been disturbed by the sight, but the little girl only looked distraught for a second, and it seemed to be mostly out of surprise rather than genuine concern for her toy. She and her friend both started laughing, and as part of this exchange, the other girl popped her doll’s head off as well, and began pressing it onto the incorrect body.

The girls continued to laugh at their own childish absurdity, but Jon only looked on in confusion. He was hit with a feeling that he never could have articulated at the time, and he still struggled to articulate it now.

It was the sheer  _ wrongness  _ of the thing. Or perhaps, the wrongness of the concept. That doll had been named, played with, and loved, and yet its identity had no fixed point. Its existence was completely abstract, and the idea of toying with that abstraction by popping body parts on and off seemed...

Grotesque. 

Jon’s mental reconstructions of Sasha begin to slow as he lingers on this memory. It didn’t matter, though. The only combination that looked familiar to him was the one currently pursuing him with intent to kill.

“Sasha...” Jon’s voice starts to break, but he clenches his jaw and wills himself to keep speaking into the recorder. “Sasha, if you’re ever able to hear this, please know that I’m so, so sorry. I don’t remember your face, Sasha. I. ..I can’t picture you. You’re gone. And I—um...” How? How could he possibly describe what he was feeling to her? The immense and surreal pain of mourning a stranger. The longing to reunite with someone whom he would never recognize. His desire to apologize to her felt cold and hollow, for when he imagines apologizing, he can only picture the face of her murderer.

But he refuses to let that stop him. 

“I-- I’m just sorry, Sasha.” He pauses to exhale. "I miss you."

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/feedback are appreciated :)


End file.
